


Herald

by HistoricalHijinks



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alien Culture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Harems, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-29 09:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoricalHijinks/pseuds/HistoricalHijinks
Summary: A song on the wind. A howl in the night. A blade in the darkness and a performance for the ages. The Coming of The Herald will drastically upset the balance of power, first in Brockton Bay and then the world, as she forsakes the status quo. Neither hero nor villain, and gathering those of like minds to her side and to her service, will she cause more harm or good as she unleashes technology, powers, and methods of thought unknown to Earth Bet?This story has a (Very Empty Currently Tv Tropes page! Add anything you like to it!This story can also be found on Fanfiction.net, Archive of Our Own, Sufficient Velocity, and Questionable Questing!As I lack a Beta-Reader, please point out any errors in the story (spelling, etc) or things you don't think makes sense. They could be plot points, they could be me messing up, so you've got to point them out!





	1. Chapter One

**Yes, another new story, but I’ve been percolating on this one for a while. I love Warhammer 40k (SISTERS ARE FINALLY COMING OUT IN PLASTIC HOLY SHIT I NEED TO SAVE UP!), especially the aforementioned SOB and Ynnari. SOB because they are an army of (insanely zealous) Joan of Arcs, and Ynnari because they seem to actually be trying to make the galaxy better rather emulating the other races, who are more interested in warring with each-other and defending their proverbial parcels of land.**

**Now, Worm and 40k crossovers are hardly rare. There are even some good ones, like _Empress Ascendant _by…something (Unruly?) Marmite. I could look it up, but I guarantee you all know what story I mean so….**

**This one, however, is not quite like those. It is most similar to _Empress Ascendant_, in that she doesn’t trigger and somehow gain the powers of the Eldar because *wiggles fingers* reasons. However, rather than having Emprah the Awful Dad stuck in her head, she is literally Yvvraine reborn.**

**This, obviously, will result in her being just _a little bit different_ to everyone else on Earth Bet. She is(was?) the Emissary of Ynnead, God of the Dead, and the only Eldar alive to have walked not only the Paths of the Eldar, but also the Path of the Corsair and the Paths of the Damned. This, according to fluff, is why Ynnead chose her in the first place. As you can imagine, having been a Dire Avenger (amongst other paths) for her bloodlust and was the Succubus of a Wych Cult, well... She will _not_ be a PG hero lol, though anything on SB and SV will obviously be edited to meet their guidelines.**

**  
Therefore, it is my great pleasure to offer up the first chapter of _Herald!_**

######################################################################

Nikos Vasil was not a good man by any stretch of even the most wild imagination or the most forgiving of hearts. He was no misunderstood visionary, no man of morally grey, no uncouth pragmatist. He was a monster in the guise of a man, a cruel and arrogant narcissist that took what and who he pleased and discarded them just as easily without pity, regret, or hesitation. Someone who had destroyed many hundreds of lives through his actions and manipulations.

Known and hated the world over as the S-rank supervillain Heartbreaker, he used his parahuman power to ensnare any woman he desired. One of the most powerful Master-class alive, he had the ability to manipulate and control the emotions of anyone he could see, and where emotions (and the chemical reactions they caused) went, minds and bodies were wont to follow. Women were absorbed into his ever-growing harem, and any men that tried to stop him or rescue their loved one became loyal guards and human shields.

It was the scope and intensity of his power that kept him alive, the fear of him enslaving any parahuman or military forces sent against him preventing direct action to bring him to justice. The countless brainwashed innocents within his compound prevented any form of long rang attack, it had long since proven impossible to sneak snipers past his patrols and guard posts, and the brisk Canadian air would disperse any sort of knock-out gas long begore it could lay him low.

So, the authorities had long since settled for trying to keep him contained in his sprawling compound outside Montreal, and for the most part he was content to allow them this petty ‘victory’. He had so many women to enjoy, after all, and when he tired of them, he had his ways of sneaking about the world outside to claim more. Safely behind his walls and women, he had little trouble sleeping every night, surrounded by the sweat-and-fluid-soaked forms of whomever he had kept with himself that night. After all, no one within his compound _could_ act against him, and those outside of it could never sneak past his guards.

It was this iron-clad truth that caused his confusion when he awoke late one August evening, stirred to consciousness by something unknown and unexpected. His brow furrowed in groggy thought as he tried to discern just what had woken him. It certainly wasn’t an enterprising toy, none of them were foolish enough to wake him with physical affection unless he had expressly instructed them to do so beforehand. In fact, it wasn’t anything _physical_ at all, but rather entirely audible. Soft flute music drifted in through and open window, and he sat up with a baffled look. He had many musicians amongst his conquests, ones whose skills, beauty, and star-studded careers had led to him claiming them in the first place, but they played only when he desired it, or during their permitted ‘free time’…which certainly didn’t cover this hour of the night!

Slipping from bed was not the easiest task, given both its size and the number of still-sleeping occupants, many of whom had not been far from his own resting place, but he managed well enough. Had he been more awake, he might have wondered why none of them stirred as he rose, despite his creating enough of a disturbance to have easily done so. Instead, he pulled on a silken bathrobe (more to protect himself from biting insects than for anything related to modesty) and saw himself outside.

The music grew louder as he followed it towards the center of his kingdom, where he mockingly displayed a large Canadian flag atop a high flagpole, the base of which was surrounded by the pillories he used to publicly shame slaves that had irritated him for one reason or another. The delicious, debauched, mocking gesture had never ceased to amuse him. The only way it could have been more ironic would have been to have an _American_ flag upon the pole, but he could hardly do that. After all, he was a proud son of Canada and a loyal servant to Her Majesty, wasn’t he?

He smirked at the thought of the old hag. She had been beautiful once, of course, and had he come to power in her youth he would have loved to claim such a beauty for his own, but alas such charms had long since faded from her visage. Though several of her in-laws were quite entrancing, and it would be nothing short of heavenly to steal them away from their blue-blood husbands. Something to consider for the future, perhaps.

His eyes finally rested on the source of the music, and he actually found himself stopping in his tracks at the sight of her. Standing at the very top of his flagpole, balanced in a way no average human could possibly hope to, she was dressed in a dark tunic and flowing white dress that shone and shimmered in the breeze, framed against the radiance of the full moon that hung low on the horizon. He could just see the flute at her lips, a faintly glimmering length of silver, her fingers moving smoothly along its length as the haunting melody continued to play. It was deeper than most flutes he was familiar with, an odd drone not unlike a bagpipes beneath the rise and fall of her recital. It was beautiful, and he decided in that moment that she would become his. Who she was or how she had come to be here didn’t matter, indeed those thoughts never crossed his mind, for the beauty of her song was all-encompassing. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but when she finally lowered her flute he cried out in distress, demanding more. She turned to look at him, cloth swirling around her, before dropping from her place. He stretched out his hand, fearing his new gem would shatter once she reached the ground, but she landed lithely and without harm before approaching him.

As she came closer, he felt his breath catch in his throat. Never had he seen such ethereal beauty, and she seemed so young to be so radiant and so skilled. Dark orange eyes, magnificent in their unique shade, shone as they gazed at him, and a golden star-mark rested on her forehead. She was tall and svelte, not an ounce of excess fat or unsightly marks within his gaze, her long and silken black hair in a bun-and-braid, a small decorative choker-like object keeping the bun in its shape. Slim hands held her metallic prize, and he couldn’t help but think what they would look like wrapped around him instead.

“Tell me your name!” he asked, no _demanded_, of her, and she smirked coyly at him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“My, so commanding. How delightful, to see one who can dictate his desires so easily.” Her contralto voice caressed his ears, a gentle warmth that seemed to fill his senses, and she cocked her hip and gave a practiced flick of her hair as she continued. “You may call my Yvraine Alarielle, if you can bring yourself to speak to me at all.”

Cocky little thing, wasn’t she? Was probably used to getting everything she wanted on a silver platter without having to lift a finger, like every other rich heiress he had gotten his hands on. Still, instead of the usual naïve but blustering maiden such girls normally presented themselves as, she seemed far more worldly. Familiar, but with an added twist that would make the taste of conquest all the sweeter.

“I can do more than speak, I _always know _what I want, and I _always_ _get_ what I want. Which is you, naked and kneeling before me. I am your master, after all, and the only thing that matters to you in the world is making me happy.” He responded as his power stretched out to her mind, sinking into her soul and binding her to him eternally…or so he had thought. Instead she simply laughed brightly and twirled around in a full circle, delight in her expression.

“Come now, is it not a glorious night? Will you not enjoy my song and dance with me?” she responded, and for a moment he frowned in consternation, but the haunting melody was there again, flowing beneath the sounds of nature around them unceasingly, and he smiled in return as it grew ever so slightly louder and wiped his nascent worries away. Dancing to such beautiful music did sound very appealing…

He followed along with her as she spun and twirled around him, the music ever-present and unceasing, and he soon found himself swept up in its notes and her infectious energy. He was no professional dancer, nor was he in _quite_ as good shape as he had been in years past, but he took reasonably good care of his physical form and had enough energy to make up for his lack of skill. As she dipped and spun, she gathered flowers from the ground, weaving them deftly into a beautiful garland necklace that she draped around his neck with a chorus of bright laughter.

The music was so loud now, filling the air and his mind, drowning out the pointless sounds of the natural world as they climbed the stairs to the parapet of his towering compound wall, hands in hands as they spun and danced and laughed together in the light of the moon. They came to a halt for a moment, breathing heavily and pressed close together, and she pranced away with sudden shyness as he dipped his head to kiss her.

“Will you not rid yourself of your other servants, for me? Surely you don’t need all those other common people when you have one as magnificent as myself in your company?” she pouted, and he felt a pang in his chest at the sight of her unhappiness.

“Of course, of course. Whatever makes you happy!” he bobbed his head agreeably, releasing his hold on all those who called him Master, something he did rarely…usually so someone could experience the full horror of their current circumstances before he leashed them again. Besides, once she was fully under his power, he could reclaim the others easily enough. It wasn’t as if she would have the capacity or desire to object at that point. “There, it’s done. Just for you.”

“How wonderful.” She cried in delight, clapping her hands before offering them to him once more. As he took them, she smiled again…but it wasn’t a nice smile. “Then I only have one final thing to ask of you before you get what you deserve.”

“Hmm? What’s that?” he queried almost absently, confused by her sudden change in attitude and almost deafened by the swelling music. There was something _wrong_ about all this, but it was so hard to think…

“From the very bottom of my heart, there is nothing more that I would love in this moment than for you…” she started, spinning him around until his back face the outside edge of the wall. With a vicious smile and cold, loathing eyes, she gave him a light shove. “To die for me.”

He fell, mind suddenly somewhat clear of her spell, and for a heartbeat he felt the true terror that must have gripped the hearts of every victim he had ever given clarity, if only for a moment. His garland grew tight around his neck, coarse like rope, and the last sensation he ever felt was reaching the end of its slack. There was a crack, and darkness consumed him.

###############################################################

Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Amalia Greyson was not the most impressive member of the Canadian Protectorate’s volunteer-only Heartbreaker Containment and Observation Unit, at least so far as earning medals or performing feats of prowess, but she was one of the best scouts in the entire organization. Moving without getting spotted and seeing without being noticed were where her talents lay, and that was a great deal more useful to the HCOU than another gun-bunny.

Dressed in drab greens and dark browns, she slunk out of a hidden exit (created in fear of Heartbreaker spying on them as much as they spied on him) and headed for her assigned daily post, which happened to be a hide halfway up a massive Siberian elm with a perfect view of the front gates to the villain’s compound. As the sun began to rise, lightening the sky from black to a pale grey, she carefully clambered up the rope ladder to her hidden platform perch, reeling the tool in when she finally reached her goal. The faintest sound of equipment clattering could have been hear as she adjusted the observation tools to her preference…shortly followed by a much, _much_ louder commotion as she tossed a single line over the edge and belayed herself back to the ground with almost dangerous speed. Hastily unclipping the shunt and tossing it aside in her desperation to move just a little bit faster, she ran faster than she had ever run before back towards base. Ignoring the concerned shouting of her compatriots, and nearly bowling over one particularly unwise Captain who attempted to waylay her, she burst without ceremony into the office of the Colonel in charge. Even as his mouth opened to bellow a condemnation, she shrieked a sentence that was equal parts glorious and terrifying.

“HEARTBREAKER IS DEAD!”

The Colonel gaped in a thoroughly undignified fashion, cheeks flush with fury paling so dramatically an observer might have called for a medical intervention, if said observer had been in a better state themselves.

“Tell me everything!” he very nearly whispered, and she took a deep, steadying breath before obeying.

An hour later, nearly the entirety of The Guild and Canadian Protectorate, along with a dozen of the best PRT Strike Teams alive, were slowly approaching the walls of Heartbreaker’s compound. A Dragon Suit sent by the famed Tinker had confirmed that the corpse hanging by his neck from the parapet of the front gate was indeed that of Nikos Vasil. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean that his many children were any less of a threat than they had been when he was alive, and their powers were more or less totally unknown. Not to mention that they had no idea what would have happened to Heartbreaker’s slaves if he died. For all the gathered law enforcement knew, they could all be a heartbeat away from turning into suicidally homicidal lunatics.

“Colonel, I suggest we move ahead quickly and carefully. As far as I can tell, everyone in the compound is still asleep. If we can secure them before they wake up, we can keep casualties to a minimum.” Dragon reported, lift-jets whining softly as the suit touched down beside him. “There is something else you should see. Someone left us a message.”

“Understood.” The Colonel nodded to her in both acknowledgement and thanks, before keying his radio. “All teams, move in and secure the inhabitants of the compound. Recon says they’re all still asleep, lock them down before they can pull themselves together.”

The PRT troopers surged forward in response, boots pounding on packed dirt and gravel as they stormed into the compound in force. Doors were kicked in, smoke and flashbang grenades leaving those inside helpless to resist as they were hosed down with containment foam where they lay. The parahumans split up to follow, each prepared to combat any powered enemy that might appear before them, but either none of Heartbreaker’s children had powers, or they had all been foamed quickly enough to prevent them from using said powers.

As the trucks began to pull up and the transport teams began collecting the semi-solid masses of porous foam, the Colonel followed the Dragon Suit up to the top of the wall, where a short rebar rod had been driven deeply into it, a rebar rod that served as the anchor for Heartbreaker’s gallows and was topped by a sign.

**Nikos Vasil has been punished**

** For the crimes he has committed**

** Against the innocent and helpless.**

** Those of his children with powers**

** Are appropriately marked.**

** Those who suffered are free **

**of his control Treat them well.**

** His wealth belongs to his victims.**

** The prices on his head belong to me.**

** 003-98752-795136-13264**

“No signature, nothing to indicate who did this. The numbers belong to a banking account, standard Independent/Vigilante rules. No name, no face, nothing more than a basic description. Young, female, Caucasian. Long black hair. Anything deeper than that would require government intervention, and if word got out that we were digging into the private identity of the person who killed Heartbreaker, the backlash would be cataclysmic.” Dragon told him quietly, doubtlessly trying to keep this information from the rank and file troopers for the time being.

“The only reason I would want to know who they are is to give them a goddamn medal and thank them personally for killing this bastard.” He grunted in response, turning away from the sign to overlook the ongoing efforts of clearing the compound. “It’s a hell of a thing, Dragon. Whoever came in here did what we couldn’t and took him down without his victims getting hurt. Today is a great day.”

############################################################

_“Though details are still sparse, Protectorate, PRT, and Guild representatives have jointly confirmed that the supervillain Nikos Vasil, aka Heartbreaker, was found hung from the front gate of his compound in the pre-dawn hours of this morning. While no one named themselves, it has been confirmed that he was killed by another parahuman, who has since received the enormous sum of money from his bounty, totaling several hundred million dollars that were pooled together by the governments of the world and the relatives of his countless victims. We’ll bring you more as this story develops.”_

“Taylor, honey, turn off the TV and come to breakfast! The Barneses will be here to get you soon!” a woman’s voice overrode the news’ switch to the meteorologist, and the screen went dark, leaving the dark shape of a teenaged girl reflected on its unlit glass surface.

“Coming, mom!” Taylor Hebert responded, dark orange eyes smoldering with satisfaction, mouth curled in a pleased smirk as she got to her feet and padded out of the living room. “Just wanted to catch the morning news…”  
###############################################################################

**So, yeah. This, Nothing Is True (the Rewrite) and Seraphim are going to be the three stories that I work on for the time being. Got a few things on deck, but I don’t really feel like starting more new stories at the moment. As always, please leave a review and consider becoming a Patron.**

**I have added the option to commission a chapter for a non-canceled story, so if you really want an update on a story consider doing so.**

**As an added note for SB and SV moderators, let me know if I need to edit this. I tried to skate the edge of breaking the rules as best I could, but I really wanted to display just how much of a monster Heartbreaker is, and how much he enjoys _being_ that monster. Alotta people in Worm, living anywhere other than Earth Bet (or even living outside of Brockton Bay) would have been tolerable or even good people if not for the grimdark world Worm takes place in. Many of them are forced by circumstance to become what they are, Taylor most obviously.**

**Heartbreaker, though? No, he wasn’t forced into his situation, he created it with meticulous preparation and unfathomable evil. He is an evil, evil male (I hesitate to call him a _man_) to the very core, his soul as rotten as anything I can imagine. He will never suffer anything but an unpleasant fate in any Worm story I write.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is some familial fluff, some manipulation of events, and some recruitment. A bit shorter than usual, sorry!  
As always, TvTropes, support me, etc!

The Parahuman Response Teams was, at least for Earth Bet, the first organization to be under the aegis of The Department of Homeland Security. Indeed, the formation of the PRT and Protectorate had been the impetus to create the branch in the first place. The other nations involved in the treaties globalizing the two organizations had their own controlling branches, of course, but as with many things they tended to follow the Americans’ lead on matters related to the Parahuman phenomenon. In this case, desperately trying to figure out whether a known parahuman had decided to kill Heartbreaker, or if there was a powerful and totally unknown piece that had decided to introduce themselves onto the board in one of the most spectacular ways possible.

“…obvious that it was a Stranger did it! Heartbreaker’s power required that he could see and speak to his target, which means the only way to get close to him is _not to be seen_! We need to put immediate M/S protocols in place on the entirety of the Containment Unit and start and immediate search for whoever did this!” Director Knox of the PRT Branch 41 (Omaha), shouted as she slammed her fist on the massive conference table that dominated the center of the PRT Supreme Command room, accomplishing little but hurting her hand.

“Don’t be absurd! Stranger or not, the chance of him accidentally looking at and speaking to them in the confines of his compound is too high for something like that to succeed! Obviously, this individual was a Mover/Shaker, able to stay out of his line of sight while keeping anyone else from interfering, probably by incapacitating them! That’s how they were able to hang him off the wall!” Director Heathrow of PRT Branch 4 (Chicago) protested, only to be immediately shouted down by Director Tagg of Branch 11 (Austin).

“You’re all fools! There was no sign of force on his body, no defensive wounds! Nothing to indicate he tried to defend himself, and autopsy confirmed that it was the hanging that killed him! The _only_ way all of that can be true is for a Master to walk in and _make him hang himself!_ All of his children should be Birdcaged _immediately_, and all of the other cultists should be returned to the compound and kept there indefinitely!”

“_Cultists?! _You want to return them to the site of their trauma? The place where they were raped and abused for years, even decades? You want to treat them like _enemies_ instead of _victims_? What in Hell is wrong with you, Tagg!” Director Armstrong of Branch 24 (Boston) roared in outrage, the room momentarily uniting in agreement with him as he glared with undisguised contempt at Tagg, who glared back defiantly.

“They are enemies! We have no idea what the long-term effects of Heartbreaker’s powers could have on them, we have no idea if the person who killed them has enthralled them, and there is no way we can properly monitor them all in the long-term!” he retorted harshly, and Armstrong snorted like an angry bull at what he clearly considered a sub-par excuse for physical and emotional cruelty of truly staggering proportions. “Once we have them re-secured, we find out who this individual is and we _force_ them to join the PRT on pain of immediate ‘Caging!”

“Your paranoia doesn’t do you any good here! Save it for dealing with Ziz Bombs and The Fallen, but don’t you _dare_ ever consider voicing disgusting suggestions in my presence again! Chief-Director, I strongly suggest Mr. Tagg be censured and removed from his position, immediately! Such conduct is appalling in anyone, but to have a Director of our organization suggest such human’s rights violations cannot be allowed to stand!”

The deliberate exclusion of his official title seemed to affect Tagg far more than the rest of the other man‘s words, which honestly would have said more than enough about him if his suggestion hadn’t already made his stance and questionable morality clear to everyone. Every eye turned to the regal form of Rebecca Costa-Brown, founding and current Chief-Director of the PRT, seated and silent at the head of the table.

“As morally objectionable as _Director_ Tagg’s words were, I can understand his disquiet and loathing of a Master threat powerful enough to overcome Heartbreaker and force him to commit suicide. I can even empathize, to a degree, knowing- as we all do- the damage Mastered thralls can do if left unchecked. However, it _is_ profoundly objectionable in terms of morality, and what’s more, my analysts believe that his power would cease affecting his victims upon his death. They feel a power as potent as his on the outset would not have staying power without his presence. At worst, they will hold lingering admiration for him or have difficulty thinking badly of him, but no more than that.” Her voice was even and firm, brooking no argument from any party, as hard hazel eyes swept the table.

“Furthermore, the damage that would be done to the PRT’s image would never be recoverable. Even if we miraculously survived the screaming masses driving the Senate to investigate us, the mass desertions from standard employees and the Protectorate membership would cripple us, if not result in near-total disbandment due to lack of numbers. The resulting chaos would hand the initiative and the edge fully to the villainous elements of the world, and I will not permit that for _any reason_. We will continue to process the victims and evaluate his children to discover how much of a threat they pose to themselves and the public at large. We will look into the identity of Heartbreaker’s executioner, but we will do so _subtly_ and without doing anything that could be considered threatening. Again, the damage to the PRT’s image from mistreating this unidentified parahuman would be immense. Are there any objections?”

There were doubtless several objections, evenly if only judging by Tagg’s expression, but no one was foolish enough to voice them out loud. The Chief-Director tended to let them run their territories as they liked with little in the way of interference, unless it proved well and truly necessary for her to involve herself. She was not, however, one who would tolerate insubordination during those times where she did lay down the law. Those who had tried to circumvent or ignore her orders tended to find The Triumvirate dropping by for a ‘friendly chat’, after which said circumventors soon found themselves ‘resigning to spend more time with their families’. It was beautifully astonishing, really, how many men and women had reached Director-hood and suddenly found themselves missing the simple family life terribly.

“Very well then. You are all dismissed. Return to your respective Headquarters and start digging. Whether this individual is hero or villain trying to make a name for themselves, we need to at the very least ID their cape persona and gather some manner of concrete intel on their powerset. Depending on who they are and where they go from here…well, then we figure out how handle them from there. All we know right now is that they are powerful, clever, and not to be underestimated.”

###############################################

Taylor squealed in laughing protest as a cackling Emma swamped her with water, hands shielding her face in an admittedly futile attempt to defend herself from such base treachery. It was a beautiful day in Brockton Bay, seventy-five and sunny with clear blue skies. The perfect day for an adventure at the beach between dearest friends and the feminine portions of their respective families. Danny and Alan were both at work, of course, and Emma’s older sister Anne was still at her college in New Hampshire doing extra credit classes. Professors and bosses cared little if it was a beautiful day outside, after all, and requesting the day off for such a thing didn’t always go down particularly well with them.

“Ems, stop it! You’re going to wreck my hair!” she whined petulantly, and the redhead scoffed in amused dismissal of her complaint, splashing her again almost lazily.

“Taylor, please. _Nothing_ wrecks your hair, okay? Or gives you a sunburn, or anything else that would make you anything other than disgustingly beautiful. Now stop whining and let me get you wet, okay? Because my jealousy induced rage needs to be satisfied _somehow_.” She responded, and it was Taylor’s turn to snort as she looked Emma over with a distinct lack of subtlety.

“Oh, Emma. Tell me, which of us has an amateur modelling career already and is the very epitome of an Irish beauty? Crimson hair, pale skin, bright green eyes…I mean, why would you be jealous of me, hmm?” was the almost disappointed response, and Emma responded by flicking her hair.

“I don’t have a drop of Irish in me, Taylor, and you know it. And you could be modelling too, if you wanted!” she grumbled good-naturedly, not even remotely angry or jealous of her oldest friend, regardless of her words. She was proud of her beauty, and a lesser girl might be jealous, but she and Taylor had been together for so long…

“Taylor, Emma! Lunch!” the voice of Zoe Barnes shouted from the shore, and Emma immediately started towards the promise of food, only to yip and prance sideways as Taylor’s hand darted out to pinch her rear end, throwing a scowl over her shoulder that was offset by the bright blush on her face.

Up on the beach, seated beside Zoe, Annette Hebert watched her daughter and a girl she loved just as much squabble playfully on their way up the beach. They were beautiful, both of them, fortunate beyond words in the appearance and (if she were to toot her own horn somewhat) raised well enough to behave properly when so many as fortunate as they became shallow and self-centered. She couldn’t help but notice the looks that followed the girls on their trek from those their own age, the way eyes lingered their generous proportions and long legs. She was sure many parents would have insisted on covering up that beauty, buying them one-piece suits or tankinis, but despite their split she very much held some of Lustrum’s ideals close to her heart. No child of hers would ever be raised to be ashamed of their body or taught to hide it away to avoid notice. So, when her daughter had bought a bikini just this side of lingerie, she had bit her tongue and let her do as she pleased.

Of course, it helped in the decision-making process immeasurably when she considered how capable her daughter was of fending off unwelcome advances.

When Taylor had been born, she had thought her heart would burst with joy. All the pain she had endured, all the dawn vomiting and wild swings of mood and appetite, all the discomfort and loss of figure…everything had fallen by the wayside, made utterly irrelevant the moment she first held her daughter’s wailing form. Oh, it had been somewhat unnerving when she had first glimpsed Taylor’s orange eyes and pale skin, feared her daughter would be shunned as an albino and outraised by her peers, but those fears had never come to pass. Emma had befriended Taylor without hesitation in Kindergarten, considering her eyes to be more fascinating than frightening.

The older Taylor grew, the more different from other girls she seemed to become. Graceful and well-spoken from a young age, with a wicked sense of humor and a sly tongue that delighted as much as it baffled and amused. No matter how well the cookie jar was hidden or secured, she would find her way into it. No matter how cleverly they placed her shelves and toy-box, she could retrieve what she wanted to amuse herself with at that moment. It was frustrating and wonderful, a point of pride and exasperation in equal measure.

Then Taylor had begun to expand her circle of friends, gathering others to her side, though none were as close to her as Emma was. If Taylor had been an adult, Annette would have likened it to the building of a powerbase. The recruitment of those who were smart enough, those whose families were influential enough, to be useful allies. All girls her own age or within a year in either direction, all apparently possessing something that Taylor valued enough to claim them for her own. And her daughter _did_ claim them. They became _her_ friends, and were guarded fiercely, even jealously at times. They obeyed her, looked to her for guidance and advice, comfort and compassion. She in turn gave what they needed, gave what they desired, and did so without cruelty. She did not demand mindless servitude, did not forbid dissenting opinions or doubts, did not forbid questions and concerns. Indeed, Taylor seemed to encourage it, frequently and gently maneuvering them into debating one matter or another amongst themselves, helped along by occasional comments or leading remarks from herself.

A dancer with inhuman grace and agility. A fighter with technique and strength she shouldn’t possibly possess. A word-smith greater than anyone she had ever met, Marquis and Lustrum included. A philosopher with a talent for cutting to the absolute core of a subject, distilling it to its most vital essence. She was terrifying and awe-inspiring in equal measure.

Yet, for all that, Taylor was still her beloved daughter, and as the back of Taylor’s head came down to rest on her stomach (mouth munching happily on a ham and cheese sandwich), she had her fingers running through dark tresses that were so like her own. No matter what, her little girl would always be the most precious thing in the world to her.

########################################################

Danial ‘Danny’ Hebert was many things. A dedicated family man, a father and husband to (in his totally unbiased opinion) the two most beautiful and intelligent women on the entire planet. A dedicated worker, who put his hearts and soul into The Dockyards and all the people who worked there, a man who had quickly risen in rank to become the Head of the Dockworker’s Association What he was _not_, however, was a miracle worker. With the functional collapse of shipping in Brockton Bay, due in part to Leviathan and in far greater part to the lack of sufficient forces to protect the shipping from the parahuman led gangs, the DWA and its damascene had fallen further and further into disrepair. It was only their loyalty to one another, and to him, that kept the majority of his people from joining a gang in order to provide for their families. Unfortunately, things were fast approaching the point where even that would not be enough, and though he bitterly resented that truth he did not hold it against them. His men and women had people to provide and care for, responsibilities deeper and more immediate than loyalty to a defunct organization.

So today, like any other day, he was working his ass off in an effort to find another paycheck for his people. No mean feat, given that their skills, outside of running a Dockyard (docking ships, unloading cargo, sorting cargo, etc.), amounted to moving heavy things from one place to another. At least, that was what the rest of the city seemed to believe. Still, Fortress Construction often had construction work on one project or another within the city or its suburbs, and Thomas Calvert usually paid pretty well.

Unfortunately, Calvert was still negotiating the contracts for his next project, which meant he wasn’t looking for extra hands at the moment, maybe not even for a few more months. That was a problem, a significant one, because there wasn’t anything else that he could find. His latest request to do salvage work on the ship graveyard and the dilapidated warehouses had been turned down, though why the Mayor seemed to think letting a quarter of the city look like shithole was better for the economy than paying to have said area cleaned up and turned into something financially beneficial for the city escaped him entirely. Then again, what did the mayor care as long as is all of his high society supporters were kept happy and safe in the center of the city?

Grumbling to himself and pushing away his anger, bitter and old, he was ready to attack his issue from a new angle (perhaps he could appeal to some of his friends and associates in other cities? Boston might need some people…) when a knock on his door drew his attention. Brow furrowed, more confused than angry. It was rare that his assistant interrupted him when he was doing this, she knew how important it was…which meant the reason for the knock had to be just as important.

“What is it, Katie?” he asked aloud, and the door actually opened to reveal her weathered face. Katie Grenada and her husband Rick had been working with him since it had been his Father running these Docks, and were two of his most loyal and dedicated Workers. She entered and closed the door behind her, lowering her voice as she responded.

“I have two guys in suits out here, Danny. They want to talk about ‘a business arrangement’ with you. This might be just what you were looking for. If it’s not, we’re no worse off than we are now.”

Taking a breath, he nodded his agreement, trying to keep hope from swelling in his chest. Suits didn’t by any means indicate legal or ethical individuals, and he would be damned if he let the DWA get used and abused by some criminal enterprise taking advantage of their desperation.

A moment later the two men, both a few years younger than him and wearing suits walked into the room, taking the somewhat shabby armchairs he kept in front of his desk out of habit rather than actually making use of them. All parties took a moment to observe one another, the silence settling for a moment before the man on the left took it upon himself to speak.

“Mr. Hebert, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. We represent an up-and-coming organization that plans on buying the entirety of the Docklands, demolishing the unsalvageable buildings, scrapping the boat graveyard, and turning the entire region into a profitable enterprise, and an entirely legal one we assure you.” There was nothing in his voice or bearing to indicate he was aware of how absurd his statement was, no acknowledgement of the insanity that was _buying a third of the city and rebuilding it_.

“To that end, our Employer wishes to recruit your Dockworker’s Association. You are the most familiar with the region, the most invested in it without being involved in various unsavory activities, and to be perfectly honest they feel that your dedication to your people and theirs’ to you is inspiring and encourages confidence in your leadership. As such, your tasks would be to provide oversite and advice to the crews working the area, and to be group leaders on the actual demolition projects. As you and yours will be acting in an advisory role, and our Employers feels that their endeavors will be far more difficult and inefficient without such assistance, they are prepared to offer generous pay. Seventy-five dollars per hour for your average subordinate, and one-hundred for yourself and a half-dozen ‘command staff’ of your choice. Benefits are equally generous.”

His heart actually stopped for a moment at that, he was sure. He couldn’t possibly have heard right, but he wasn’t going to risk anything just by laughing in these gentleman’s faces. Revitalizing the Docklands was obviously something he wanted to get behind, but the amount of money required to accomplish all of this…

“With all due respect, how can your Employer possibly hope to accomplish it all? What is the end goal for such a massive expenditure?” he finally asked, for lack of anything else to say, and the men smiled in unison.

“Mr. Hebert, negotiations are nearly concluded, all that is left is the formal agreement. Mayor Christner is eager to wash his hands of the situation, quite frankly, as long as it’s in a way that he doesn’t have to actually spend any money. The price our Employer offered was simply the proverbial icing on the cake. As for the end goal? Simply put, our Employer believes that a revitalization of the city is more than possible, and will in turn strangle the gangs of the desperation and shadows they thrive on. Our Employer intends to turn Brockton Bay from a nightmare and a joke into a tourist destination, and a large one.”

“That will be no small task…” Danny commented absently, mind racing. Did he dare try to take the risk this offer could represent? This could be an elaborate ploy to abuse his people, but ignoring the chance was guaranteed to harm them. It came down to whether he was willing to risk potential harm to 40reap life-saving benefits, or pray something else fell into his lap…and he knew what the right and responsible thing to do was. “Alright gentleman, inform your employer that I am ready, willing, and able to meet with them and clarify the details at their convenience.”

A round of handshakes later, the men were on their way outside of the room when he suddenly though of something.

“Who was it you worked for, again?”

They stopped for a moment, looking back over their shoulders with small smiles on their faces.

“Someone that wants to change the world, Mr. Hebert. An emissary, if you will, named Yvvraine. As for the organization, you can call us Craftworlds. We all look forward to working with you, have no doubt about that.”

With that they were gone, heading down the stairs and into the outside worlds. No one noticed them walk into a side alley and never exit, nor did anyone witness it as their forms faded to reveal instead a pair of young women, eyes shining with satisfaction as they waited for several minutes. A battered sedan, utterly ignorable in its decrepit nature, arrived to retrieve them without fanfare. Keen eyes, had they been watching from the right angle at exactly the right moment, might have noticed the slight haze of heat beneath the sedan, a slight flicker and distortion in its form as the doors opened and the girls embarked. Then it was gone, driving away as if nothing had happened, a faint hum beneath the sound of its engine.

#################################################################

Johnathon Curtis and Eret Solvet, better known as the _very_ small-time villains Uber and Leet, were heading for their hideout. One of many worn-down warehouses in the northern Docklands, though they had done some internal work to make it a little bit more tolerable than its outer appearance might suggest. It was certainly the longest-lasting of their bases, large enough that Leet could work on his Tinker-Tech without destroying the entire building if it went wrong, and the abandoned nature of the area decreased the likelihood of anyone following them, attacking them, or looting their base. None of which was particularly acceptable to them, not the least because anything stolen was irreplaceable given the nature of Leet’s power.

Tonight, fortunately, they were far from worried about being followed. After all, no one would care about following a pair of guys home from the grocery store, not when there were better targets out there, right? It’s not like they looked particularly wealthy, and to be honest they weren’t. The money they made from their streams and burglaries went predominantly into Tinkering, after all, and Tinkering wasn’t cheap by any stretch of the imagination. Besides, their food budget had to be of appropriate size, being internet legends led to a real appetite!

Glancing around furtively as they arrived at their destination, the two boys-in-men’s-bodies pulled out a pair of palm-sized security devices, tapping in unique security codes. The steel front door clanked open to admit them, and after some stumbling, shoving, and swearing they managed to get themselves and all of their purchases inside. Leet immediately dumped everything on the floor and headed for his workshop, muttering to himself as he contemplated one project or another, and his partner gave a sigh of long suffering as he set about the task of dealing with the food before it spoiled. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, he contemplated quite ruefully how glad he was that Leet had him around. God knows that he would have died of food poisoning long ago if he was on his own, what with his somewhat _lax_ attention to things like hygiene or ensuring dairy products were properly stored.

**_“How terribly domestic! If I didn’t know better, I would think that your bromance was something else entirely. As it is now, I must admit its awfully amusing to watch you putter about cleaning up this mess you call a lair. I mean, really, would a little more color be all that bad? Everything is grey, grey, _grey!_ Booorrrinnnggggg~!”_ **the voice of a young woman sung from somewhere above them, and the two men reacted almost instantly. Uber reached under the nearest side-table and pulled out a .44 while Leet fumbled about for a moment before finally brandishing what looked like the unholy love-child of a shock-stick and a shepard’s crook in the general direction of the voice, energy crackling along its length. **_“Now, that’s not very nice, boys! You should listen when a lady gives you decoration advice, you know! How can you expect to get a girl acting like this when one comes inside?”_**

“Who are you, what do you want?!” Uber shouted at the ceiling, looking rather off-balance, and there was a moment of silence, the two men could practically _see_ whoever it was tilting her head to the side and putting a finger to her chin in thought.

**_“What do I want? Well, I want a lot of things. Beautiful women, eternal glory, unfathomable wealth, fame and adulation from the entire world…but I suppose good things come to those who wait. Right now, I just want to recruit you boys. You see, I just bet that I can make sure Uber never, ever blows up a device again. I’ll bet that I can make it possible to produce more of anything he designs. All _you_ have to do is agree to work for me and my company! Under the table of course, I wouldn’t want those dastardly politicians to go and ruin things for us!”_** she responded finally, and Uber didn’t have to look at his friend to imagine Leet’s reaction**_. _**He had watched his friend wither, fade, and crack under the disappointment of seeing device after device, incredible machines beyond what most other Tinker’s could create, inevitably self-destruct. He had watched him spend hours, _days_, pouring over notes and schematics in an effort to discern if something was_ different_ enough that he could actually build it. He knew what this offer would mean, and that made him suspicious.

“And just how would you do that? Nobody can replicate or change a Tinker’s tech, it’s not possible. It’s been tried thousands and thousands of times and always failed. No human or Parahuman has ever managed it, not Manton or Hero. Even Dragon can’t really pull it off.” He responded evenly, ignoring the betrayed look Leet shot him for his apparent dismissal of such an offer.

**_“My dear, dear Uber…you know what they say about making assumptions” _**her voice was filled with amusement, and a large sack fell to the ground from the darkness of the ceiling, bills spilling out of it before their very eyes. **_“Consider that a down payment. Once you decide to agree, we will meet again. Until next time, boys~!”_**

Silence fell, and though they couldn’t see anything or anyone, both villains had the feeling that she was truly gone. Of course, the fact that she had been able to get into their lair in the first place was more than mildly concerning. They would have to look into changing locations and updating their security protocols, promptly, before someone less generous found whatever hole in their net she had managed to slip through.

“Well, whoever she is, she doesn’t lack in confidence.” Uber finally said with a rueful shake of his head. “Not only did she never tell us who she was, we didn’t lay eyes on her once the whole time, and she got in and out without any alarms getting tripped. Damnit, she is positive we’ll sign up. ‘When we decide to agree’, eh?”

“This is…a whole lotta cash, bro. Like, more than we’ve ever had outside of a job for Coil or Kaiser. I’m not saying we should just agree to it right off, but if she can throw this kind of cash around just as a ‘down payment’, and if she can actually do what she said about my ‘tech…” Leet’s voice trailed off as he looked through the bag and its spilled contents, and Uber nodded with another sigh.

“Yeah, its worth a shot. As long as we’re careful about it.” He grumbled, not even bothering to fight it. A hero would have dropped the cops on them, not recruited them, and a villain would have added a stick to go with the carrot. Whoever this person was, the Unwritten Rules seemed to be a list of _suggestions_ as far as she was concerned. That meant she was either stupid, suicidal, or powerful…and he somehow doubted that one of the first two was the right answer.


	3. Chapter Three

A thunderous boom shook the city as another building came crashing down, dust and debris filling the sky as it changed from a dilapidated, rickety skeleton of rusted metal and rotten wood to a grimy, disorganized pile of rusted metal and rotten wood. One of countless buildings that had been destroyed so far today, and fortunately none of them were falling as a result of cape violence. Rather, their demise was coming about as a direct result of one young woman’s rather large pocketbook.

Taylor watched with satisfaction as her employees, though of course none of them knew who she was in truth and simply considered her the DWA boss kid’, swarmed forward with tools and transports to quickly move the rubble away for disposal. It was just wonderful how fast things could get done when you had sufficient funds to simply throw more men and equipment at an issue. Oh, there were certainly portions of her projects where that _wouldn’t_ actually work, due to safety concerns and such things, but still. Money was often the limiting factor in life, and while she had expended a significant amount of her reward to buy The Docklands, she still had more than enough for this. Especially once she had more funds coming in from various enterprises, donors, and interested parties. Besides, if push came to shove, she could always kill some more _valuable individuals _sooner rather than later.

With this project, her influence in the city would grow significantly. It would take little while to become lucrative, but not as long as some might think. Oh, the jewel of her crown would take _time_, plenty of it, but the lesser, peripheral entertainments would be much easier and quicker to design. They would be bringing in funding and growing her base of support, even if not directly or entirely knowingly. She owned nearly a third of the city, now, and when it was not only returned to its old glory but expanded beyond it, she would become the preeminent power within the city. With Brockton Bay solidly under her influence and the lack of jobs and prevalence of slums starving the gangs of both the desperate recruits and shadowed places that gave them life... they would collapse, inevitably, leaving only herself and the various heroes.

Then, she could expand beyond her home. Investors would flood to her, the public would respect her, and the government would have a bit of egg on its face for failing so consistently where she had succeeded so easily. Prestige and wealth would be well within her grasp and she would have the ears of those in power. All things that would advance her goals even further still. All of this was true, and all of this was a cause for her actions.

It was also true, and a greater cause than she might like to admit, that she had also done this to make her family happy. Her father had poured his heart and soul into the docks, had spent his life keeping it running and helping the people who depended upon it survive, only to find himself abandoned and scorned by those who should have been his natural allies. She had watched him wither away, bit by bit, as his efforts turned up less and less success. She had watched her mother try desperately to help him, spending as many hours as he on paperwork or the internet, searching for a solution. Supporting the man that she loved with all that she had. They had sacrificed so much trying to help their people, and everything not upon that altar had been spent without hesitation on her. She, who was not within her mind, soul, and heart truly human. She, who was not even from this world, this _dimension_. She, who…

_No_, she thought to herself as she shook those dark thoughts away. _I may be Yvvraine, but I am also Taylor. I am their daughter, they are my parents, and they deserve all that I can do for them. This is just the beginning._

She would fulfill her father’s dream, renew the life-blood of the city and do her part in turning it from a contemptible joke into a jewel of the east coast, as it had been in decades past. A center of trade and tourism, a destination eagerly sought rather than desperately avoided. A place of Light, not Darkness.

She cast one final gaze at the work in progress before turning away. She had a show to put on tonight, and she wanted to make sure it was appropriately magnificent. A proper debut would need to be made to this amusing little game that the ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’ were so enamored with. It was pathetic, honestly, and served only to perpetuate the decay and agony of this world, but she would indulge their games for a time, even if only for her own amusement. Of course, when it stopped amusing her things would certainly begin going poorly for those who were obstacles and distractions from her plans. There was far too much at stake to tolerate it when the time came.

More than anyone could ever imagine.

############################################################################

Elsewhere in the city, well-hidden in a labyrinthian hideout hidden beneath one of the super-bunker Endbringer shelters that his own company had constructed, a man in a black bodysuit decorated with a white snake coiling around his body from head to toe watched on a bank of monitors as the docks were demolished one building at a time.

He was, arguably, unique amongst most non-kill order parahumans. While the majority of the parahuman population contented themselves with ‘cape activities’ in their spare time from work, or school, or family life, he was the opposite. It was not Coil the Supervillain who was his alter ego, but rather retired Strike Team Leader and Fortress Construction owner Thomas Calvert who was the true mask. He was a man who dedicated every moment of his day to gaining an advantage on his rivals and the idiots that worked in the PRT and Protectorate, and a man who always gained those advantages.

It was easy, really, when one had the power to split time. No matter what happened, positive or negative, in anything he did, he could find a way to get a better result. To expand his influence and wealth. To make sure that all of his plans, no matter how long or short term they were, came to fruition. Even this could, undoubtably, be turned in his favor somehow. Whoever the people behind this ‘Craftworlds’ that had just bought a significant portion of the city was, they had virtually come out of nowhere. Mildly concerning, naturally, but given he could spend literally countless timelines looking for information either overtly or covertly he wasn’t to terribly worried. Whoever was behind this was someone he would eventually get a handle on, or they would tragically disappear. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

That being said, he did have assets that were in the Docks, assets of the material nature, and he had likely lost them already or would be doing so imminently. That was irksome, very irksome, but unfortunately unavoidable. Of all the times he had to be out of the city, focusing his timelines on cultivating new contacts elsewhere, something major like this had to happen. Well, he wouldn’t make that mistake again. Anytime he was out of his city (his future city, he supposed, for it inevitably would be his) he would have constant report on its status, to avoid this sort of thing happening again.

He thrived on information, his network of spies passing on what he needed to gain an unassailable edge over his rivals. He bribed, blackmailed, kidnapped, stole…anything that helped him with his goals, anything that would make him king of the proverbial castle, he was willing to do. He _had_ done it all with nothing in the way of regrets. He had learned all too well that the only butt he should care about and the only person that mattered was himself when his entire unit, along with three others, had been slaughtered in Ellisburg when they had foolishly tried to take on Nilbog. He had certainly taken a few steps past common decency when he shot his own comrade in the back to get up the ladder before the bio-tinker’s monsters had caught up. Of course, he could have been shot for that himself, but fortunately he was able to spin a tale about the other man having been infected and in the midst of becoming one such monster himself. With the confusion and terror around Nilbog’s powers and the inability to recover a body to prove or disprove his story, all he had suffered was a quiet discharge. Gallingly, _dearest_ Emily, who had also been there and run, hadn’t gotten a discharge, had she? No, because she returned with intel she had acquired only through sheer dumb luck, she had ended up getting _promoted_ instead. A few years later and here she was, Director of one of the handful of cities that had a dedicated PRT and Protectorate presence!

Well, he wasn’t one to forgive or forget a slight. The PRT would discover what a mistake they had made for humiliating him and tossing him aside, and Emily would _suffer_ for her part in it all. First, he would depose her as Director, preferably in as humiliating a manner as possible. Then, he would let her watch as he single-handedly took the city over lock, stock, and barrel. As her heroes were used again and again to do his dirty work, driving out rivals and crippling themselves in the process. Only after everything she had fought for, all the thin civility and peace she had kept the city holding on to since Marquis was arrested had collapsed, and the reputation of her beloved organization was in ruins would he personally execute her. Many a night he had slept with a smile on his face at the mental image of her inevitable expression of helpless fury and fear, right before the bullet blew out the back of her head.

Still, daydreams of the future aside, he had a great deal to accomplish today. In addition to gathering the requisite intel, or at least making a damn good go of it, he had to deal with the various droll day-to-day affairs of both Coil and Calvert, and unfortunately doing paperwork in one timeline didn’t magically finish it in the other. On the plus side, he could delegate most of the paperwork for Fortress Construction to his assistants and secretary. Micro-management time was to be spent on pursuits that he actually cared about, and the day to day affairs of his cover persona’s cover company certainly didn’t fall into that category. He really only got involved when he needed to manipulate events and resources to expand his villainous empire and the territories therein.

As Coil, he needed to deal with some equipment requisitions. Another shipment of guns had arrived, and Toybox had sent him the latest iteration of their ‘catalogue’, which contained two _very _nice new items in the form of a hard-light blade for various weapon forms and a personal jetpack. As much as he loved the idea of having jet-troopers with blades that could cut through almost anything, the current iteration of both items wasn’t (in his humble opinion) worth the price tag demanded. Better to wait until the tinker organization streamlined the design sufficiently before spending that sort of money. Foodstuffs and other basic supplies needed to be refreshed, the pumps that kept the warrens between underground shelters dry needed standard maintenance, and oddly enough a trio of security cameras had broken down completely for reasons beyond him. He would have been suspicious if not for the fact that a full search of the base and several timelines’ worth of investigation had found nothing out of the ordinary. Even for a parahuman super-villain, things could just _break_ without some sort of outside involvement.

Rubbing his forehead as a headache began to grow behind his eyes, he instructed his assistant to bring him a steaming glass of his new favorite tea, _Seachran_. He had no idea where his assistant had found it, though he would have to remember to ask eventually, but wherever she had found it…well, it was the best damn tea he ever drank, and it was perfect for getting rid of his headaches.

Hmm, the latest intelligence from the assets that he had monitoring various non-migratory S-rank threats were reporting some odd ‘ghosts’ near the perimeter wall of Ellisburg. Surprising, he didn’t think anyone other than the (admittedly hardcore) Nilbog Containment Specialist Unit would go anywhere close to that particular hellhole, but perhaps some young, recently-triggered idiot thought they could manage that which their seniors in both age and experience had not. He would have his people keep an eye on the situation. If these ‘ghosts’ turned out to be individuals useful to him, it wouldn’t be hard to make them disappear and give the impression that they had actually ventured into the lair of the Goblin King and died there.

If they weren’t useful…well, he would probably use a few timelines to see what actions might or might not inspire the wrath of the bio-tinker by using them as bait. He could think of plenty of scenarios where that knowledge could come in handy, especially research into whether he could inspire Nilbog to go after particular locations or individuals, though he would have to be meticulous about ensuring nothing could be remotely traced back to him. Hell, he might be able to leave a trail to one of his rivals or obstacles. That would certainly be convenient, but he was willing to admit that doing anything about Ellisburg was a fanciful thought. The ruined city and it’s ruler had no real impact or value in regards to his plans, nor did he have any particular need for _vengeance_ or _retribution_ for the lost lives of his former comrades. Though, once he had power publicly as Calvert, perhaps he could try something along that vein. It would make an excellent story for the citizenry if he portrayed himself as the vengeful soldier bringing peace to their souls and removing a grave threat at the same time. All nonsense, of course, but it was the sort of thing that people ate up with delight.

Picking up his freshly delivered tea, he sat back and took his first sip, sighing with palpable relief as the headache immediately began to abate, his almost-imperceptibly blurred vision clearing. Life was good, and getting better all the time.

###############################################################

The nightlife of Brockton Bay was not known for its peaceful and relaxing nature, though The Boardwalk admittedly was almost what your average person would consider safe, and it certainly didn’t improve when the locals started getting restless. Restless locals usually meant gunfire, explosions, and highly-destructive cape-on-cape battles that ended up with repair bills in the tens of thousands of dollars, if not more.

As a result, when people witnessed a group of about two dozen armed and angry members of the Archer’s Bridge Merchant gang, with a pissed-off and vitriolically-muttering Skidmark leading them personally down the street, they either rapidly vacated the area or battened down the proverbial hatchs. Gangers with a cape supporting them was bad enough in the first place, but when those same individuals were clearly already in a bad mood…well, its said that nothing improves a bad mood like spreading it around, and shockingly enough no one felt much like volunteering.

Well, almost no one.

“Console, Console, this is Vista. Reporting Merchant activity on 5th and Maple. Two dozen regulars with assorted melee and guns, led by Skidmark. No sign of any other potential combatants, no indication of why they’re here, over.”

Though she was young (painfully young, by many standards), Missy Biron was mature in so many ways. As the Ward Vista, she had more experience and time in uniform than the rest of her teammates, and even some of the full Protectorate members for that matter. Something that certainly showed in the way she carried herself and spoke while in public, and something that had frequently caused protestation and soap-boxing from the ever-infuriating Youth Guard. God forbid that a Ward, a super-hero-in-training, be competent and mature in public. If it was just about her age that would be one thing, though mentioning it was a sure-fire way to piss the girl off, but they treated those on the cusp of graduation the same way. The Wards was JROTC for heroes, but apparently the fact that they had super-powers made it appalling and unacceptable.

_“Copy, Vista. You and Shadow Stalker are to remain out of sight and non-combative unless ordered otherwise. Battery is three minutes away and Miss Militia is a few minutes behind her. How copy?” _the voice of Carlos Dorent, also known Aegis, respond crisply from the command and control center deep in the bowels of the PRT ENE HQ. A total stick in the mud, as far as she was concerned, but she was willing to admit (quite generously, in her opinion) that he was not as bad as the overly-pompous, sanctimonious _ass_ that was Gallant. A boy who was entirely too fond of himself as Gallant or as his ‘mild-mannered alter ego’ Dean Stansfield. A richy-rich brat that had probably Triggered when his first girlfriend wouldn’t put out on their first date, or something equally pathetic. Not like her, not like those that had gained their powers through true suffering.

Sophia Hess, the ‘former’ and ‘reformed’ vigilante named Shadow Stalker, grumbled in discontent as her patrol partner for the evening gave her a pointed look. It was fucking stupid that they had to sit around waiting when the two of them could easily take these morons out. All Vista had to do was warp the distance between a tranquilizer bolt and Skidmark’s neck. Ten seconds later, the only parahuman is unconscious and a drooling pile of the ground and they could pick off what bangers didn’t run at their leisure. But _noooo_, Wards weren’t permitted to strike the first blow against parahuman enemies, allowed only to defend themselves or support a fully accredited Hero.

She never should have agreed to this little ‘comradery building patrol’ the Youth Guard had come up with. Apparently the only two female ENE Wards had to be good friends and do girly shit together, and that meant time spent solely in each-other’s company in uniform and out. She certainly hadn’t appreciated any implications into her ‘virtue’ given that she ‘was constantly in the company of boys her own age or older and might fall victim to youthful foolishness’ thanks to ‘the stressful and emotional activities in which she was forced to participate as a Ward.’

Still, as annoying as she found the younger girl’s crush on Gallant and as foolish as she considered the Protectorate and PRT’s attitudes toward combating villains as a whole, she was willing to admit (even if only to herself) that Vista was the most competent of her team-mates, and one whose power was both versatile and potentially terrifying. Plus, it was fucking hilarious to see pathetic worms like those below them try to run away, only to find that the other end of the street was miles further away than it had been a moment ago. Better yet was the time Vista had done the opposite to a getaway car from a bank robbery, warping the distance sufficiently to send it plowing into a wall that had previously been hundreds of yards down the street. Oh, the girl had been lectured at length for that, but Sophia could see that the complaints had rolled off the blonde’s back like water, as they should have.

“What…?” Vista’s murmuring roused her from her thoughts, and she glanced over the lip of the roof again to see what she was staring at. Her eyes widened as she took in the fog that seemed to be flowing onto the street, low-sprung misty tendrils crawling out of sewer grates, alleyways, and from beneath the cars parked along the street. It began to swirl around the now-nervous Merchants, coiling like wisp-serpents around them, tugging at their clothes and drifting in a breeze that didn’t exist.

“That’s not fucking natural, fog doesn’t move like that.” Sophia declared bluntly, double-checking her crossbows as the fog continued to flow and gather around the Merchants, who by this point looked panicked enough to shoot at the slightest startle. They were all probably up to their eyeballs in drugs, and she was willing to bet that what was creepy to her and Vista was utterly terrifying to their narcotic-addled brains. “There’s someone else here, someone who’s controlling that fog. Call it in while I get an ETA from Battery.”

Down on the ground, the Merchant members were shuddering in discomfort and unease at the light, damp caress when one of them was yanked backwards into the opaque air with a choked of scream. Amidst swearing and shouts of confusion, his compatriots turned to face the direction they believed that threat was within, but the threat had moved in anticipation of their reaction. In an instant another Merchant was on the ground, a leg sweep sending her to the ground. As she landed another foot crashed into her head, breaking her jaw and sending her into unconsciousness, one she probably would have welcomed as a respite from the pain she would have been in had she been conscious long enough to feel it.

Then the singing started, a sweet but husky contralto that echoed through the buildings and filled the air around them, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.

_“For whom weeps the storm, Her tears on our skin. The days of our years gone, our Souls soaked in sin. These memories ache with the wait of tomorrow…”_

“Spread the fuck out! Find whatever cock-gobbling gutter-slut is here!” Skidmark snarled, giving what was perhaps the most idiotic order he could have in such a situation, and unfortunately for him his people were too high and too scared of him to disobey. Instead they spread out in a rough circle, eyes probing the mist as they tried to see whoever was there enemy.

_“Who fights?”_

Two of them were the unknown parahuman’s next victims, as the cape appeared from the fog and crushed two of them, hammer-blows of fist and feet cracking bones and bruising flesh. The attacker vanished again, leaving them moaning on the ground, and moments later dragged another into the fog with and arm around her neck.

“_Who falls?”_

One of the Merchants made break for it, but a crack filled the air as something dark and thin blurred through the air and wrapped around his ankles. Screaming, hands clawing at the ground desperately for purchase, he was quickly dragged into the same mist that had claimed so many of his fellows.

“_Who flies?”_

“Christ…” Vista whispered, rolling her eyes behind her mask at the almost absent-minded chastisement she received from the freshly-arrived and currently charging Battery, who was watching with hawk-like focus as events continued to unfold below them. “Ever seen anything like this?”

_“One brings Shadow, one brings Light. Two-toned echoes tumbling through time. Threescore wasted, ten cast aside. Four-fold knowing, no end in sight.”_

“Not in a long time, not since one of the fights with The Nine. We had a Mover/Stranger on our side, a refugee from Kyushu. She was fast, very fast, and could leave behind illusions of herself whenever she moved. Never got her name, never saw her again. She definitely didn’t sing while she was fighting, that’s for sure.” The older heroine responded, shaking her head in mingled dismay and awe as another two thugs fell to a hurricane of melee attacks. “Whoever this is, they aren’t a fresh off the Trigger newbie. Or, they were _very_ good at hand-to-hand before they got powers. Won’t be long until it’s just Skidmark at this rate.”

_“One brings Shadow, one brings Light. One dark future no one survives. On Their Shadows, away we fly.”_

Her words proved prophetic, for within the space of a minute more, the rest of the unpowered criminals had been laid low, leaving the Parahuman founder of Brockton Bay’s weakest gang alone. Without anyone to protect him or easily provide projectiles for his propulsion fields, he resorted to an old standby: apply his field to whatever he could and start flinging them in random directions. Laughter replaced singing, which only served to enrage Skidmark further, his behavior growing more and more erratic the longer the situation lasted. Shadowed forms flitted through the fog, taunting him with words and mocking laughter, and Battery frowned in displeasure.

“She’s just toying with him now, drawing it out for the fun of it. Not very heroic…” she murmured, and Sophia couldn’t restrain her scoff.

“Who cares if she’s freaking him out, its not like she’s torturing him with a knife and getting off on it. He’s a drug-peddling, kidnapping rapist that should have been dealt with a long, long time ago.” She said bluntly, ignoring the look Battery was giving her as she stared back down at them. “The Merchants are scum, worse than anyone else in the Bay. Good riddance to filth.”

“Where are you!” Skidmark finally screamed, probably the ‘cleanest’ sentence the man had ever uttered.

“Behind you…” the voice uttered, too softly, and as he turned with a shout of fear the fog billow and disperse outwards in a wave of pressure. The heroes, even on their roof-top perch, shielded their faces from the strong wind. When they looked back down, they witnessed a slim feminine figure, wreathed somehow within what remained of the fog, holding Skidmark several feet in the air. One hand was wrapped around his throat as she held him without any discernable difficulty as he struggled to free himself.

_“The road that we walk is lost in the flood. Here, proud angels bathe in their wages of blood. At this, the world’s end, do we cast off tomorrow.” _She finished her song, before cocking her head in consideration. “What should I do with you, I wonder? There are so many _options_, so many _games_ that we could play. And this really is all a game, isn’t it, ‘Skidmark’?”

“Right, we’re going down there before she does something she will regret. You two stay behind me and be ready to run if you have to.” Battery declared, gesturing for Vista to create a path to the street for them, which she did with little effort.

“Ah, the noble Protectorate reveal themselves at last. I had wondered if you might linger on that rooftop for the whole of the night.” The unknown remarked as they approached, never looking away from the fruitlessly writhing man in her grasp, head still cocked in what the three heroes were now positive was amusement. “Really, I thought that I might have to address you directly with an invitation to join me before you would actual move. Did you enjoy my performance?”

“Enjoy isn’t the word I would use, miss, and I’m going to have to ask you to put Skidmark down before you hurt him too badly.” Battery’s voice was cool, and the woman glanced at her with the same amusement she had been directing at the villain.

“I have and shall hurt him as much as I need or want, no more or less. Unlike some, I do not lack control over either myself or my strength. I would have thought that, if nothing else, would have been made abundantly clear over the last few minutes.” She responded, apparently unconcerned and unoffended by Battery’s bearing or words. “I understand that you are used to working with those who lack such control, but the failings of your organization and those of your enemies are hardly indicative of all who roam the streets at night.”

“St’p f’ckn talkin’! Get t’is bitch offa me!” Skidmark snarled through grunts of exertion and discomfort, still playing the part of a worm on a fish-hook. The woman holding him responded by tightening her grip slightly, _tsking_ in chastisement.

“Now, really! Not only are there ladies present, but one of them is fairly young.” She scolded him, sounding more like an irritated mother than anything else. She gave Vista an almost apologetic look as the Ward bristled instinctively at the hated words. “I mean no offense, my dear Vista. You are certainly capable, experienced, and have heard far worse than that. Nevertheless, improper behavior really must be corrected, hopefully before he stains the ears of someone not so worldly as you.”

“Miss, I won’t ask again. You need to put him down _now_.” Battery ordered firmly, energy playing across her skin and suit in what could only be considered a threat, and the woman sight gustily in theatrical disappointment before obeying…after a fashion. An almost lazy movement of her arm sent him ten feet away, where he slammed into a wall and slumped unconscious to the ground.

“Ugh, I have his filth on my glove. Disgusting, I tell you. Does the man not know the meaning of hygiene or bathing?” the woman grumbled in contempt, pulling off said glove with the other before wrapping them around each other, EMT style. The three heroes flinched slightly as a small purple flame flared in her hand, incinerating the gloves and burning the last of the fog away to reveal her full appearance.

Long, silken black hair hung from a high-ponytail down to just below her hips, long bangs framing a stereotypically aristocratic face, the only startling feature of which being her dark orange eyes. A black and red bodysuit hugged every generous curve, strategically placed gaps enticingly revealed tanned flesh, and a long train-like skirt swayed with her movement to reveal black leggings that ended in thigh-high stiletto boots. Various tools and pouches hung from the belt at her waist, including the long black whip she must have used earlier, now coiled and latched in its proper place. The decorations were many, what looked to be precious gems scattered about her entire ensemble, and golden star-like mark was on her forehead.

She was beautiful.

“So…” she started, one hand dipping to her waist and withdrawing an oriental fan that she flicked open with a deft motion and used to cover the lower half of her face, eyes sparkling with impish delight as she regarded them. “What can I do for you fine folk tonight?”

“Who are you?” Vista blurted, prompting another tilted head in response. The unknown regarded her for a moment before glancing at her defeated foes, gesturing to them grandly with her free hand.

“I could give you my name, but what amusement is in so simple a response? See the answer laid out before you.”

It took a use of Vista’s power and a rooftop view to see what she was saying, and when they did Sophia couldn’t help but give a whistle of admiration. There, on the pavement made damp by blood and fog, was spelt a word in the unconscious forms of the Archer’s Bridge Merchants. Twenty-four insensate forms laid out in a particular pattern that gave name to their attacker:

H-E-R-A-L-D.

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**Remember folks, Tayvraine was once Drukhari, among other things. Spelling out her name in the bodies of her enemies is pretty casual for the BDSM Space Elves, especially since she didn’t kill them horribly and do some sort of abstract art with their blood.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed. You know how to support me, you know where the review button is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get myself off to work!**


	4. Chapter Four

Hana Washington, the Kurdish-American hero known the world over as Miss Militia, brought her modified Jeep to an abrupt halt and quickly disembarked, moving with deliberate and careful haste towards the unknown parahuman that was watching over the semi-conscious forms of 24 thugs and their leader. Even as she approached, the road next to the young woman twisted and warped, snapping back to normal only after her friend and the two Wards had stepped through the distortion.

“Miss Militia, how good of you to join us! I just finished introducing myself, the great Herald, to your dear companions!” the unknown said, flicking the large fan in her hand open and shut in something Hana imagined was meant to be a wave. “I do hope you’ve summoned some of those foam soldiers of yours. I confess that I have little interest in helping to haul such smelly folks about.”

“Ah…yes, there are police coming for the regular gang members, and a transport team for Skidmark. Do you mind if I ask why you aren’t wearing a mask? It’s extremely dangerous to do so, for yourself and for any loved ones.” Hana responded, resisting the urge to blink and stare at the girl. She was being reminded all too much of her oldest and dearest friend, Miria Wilberforce. Also known as the most absurdly over-the-top hero known to mankind: Mouse Protector.

“Feh, I fear nothing that can be mustered by the villains of this city. Besides, those delightfully amusing unwritten rules of yours will make a suitable leash for the time being. After all, none of them are interested in a repeat of the Fleur Incident, hmm? It might not end so neatly for them the next time around.” the girl nearly scoffed, orange eyes amused as she made a dismissive motion with the fan, and to be honest it made some sense.

Everyone knew the story of Fleur, also known as Jessica Richardson, and the attempt by an Empire 88 recruit to kill her in an effort to earn himself some street cred and notoriety in his little den of squalor. Instead of finding her home alone and weaponless when he kicked in the door with a shotgun, he had found himself confronted by a very angry Lightstar. A few basketball-sized power-orb detonations later, and his thoroughly naked, third-degree-burned body had been left on the sidewalk in front of the police station. New Wave, furious at the attempted murder of one of their members (and future kin), had gone on a rampage through the ranks of the Empire, before getting forced into an uneasy truce by Kaiser confronting them with his entire force and making a public apology. Since then, the New Wave movement had been badly stymied, and it had been more or less decided that public accountability for parahumans wouldn’t happen while people who broke the rules were still around.

Astonishingly enough, there were still plenty of said people about, and some of them had enough power behind them that they could get away with doing whatever the hell they wanted. God knew The Nine didn’t give a damn about any rules, written or otherwise.

“No matter how skillfully you manipulated the environment to give yourself an advantage this time, that advantage will not be ever-present. It would be wise to consider masking yourself just in case.” She responded carefully, mentally sighing in exasperation. Confidence that bordered on arrogance was painfully common amongst new parahumans, especially teens and young adults, so it unsurprising (if still disappointing) that it had happened here.

“My dearest Miss Militia, how many girls my age with dark orange eyes, long black hair, and a build such as mine do you think that there are in this city, hmm? It would be painfully easy for someone to unmask me. Besides, how amusing will it be to go about foiling the plans of villains with my face bared for all to see, yet remain untouchable to them? Oh, how they shall seethe at their impotency as they pass my mild-mannered alter-ego on the street!” the girl chortled brightly, her laughter entirely genuine as far as the heroes could tell, and Hana had to resist the urge to rub her forehead. Evidently Herald’s sense of humor trended towards what would colloquially be called ‘trolling’, even if her point about her appearance being unique enough to make basic disguise rather pointless was a good one.

“If you joined the Wards program, we could give you colored contacts or something to disguise yourself. It would be a lot safer than being on your own!” Vista chirped eagerly, clearly excited at the prospect of having another female teammate. She and Shadow Stalker weren’t exactly bosom friends, to say the least. Seeing the other teen looking far from convinced, she cast about in mental desperation before landing on a stroke of cleverness. “Besides, even if you don’t and they figure out who you are, wouldn’t it be even more fun to have them be totally pissed because they can’t go after a Ward?”

“Hmm, perhaps, but I would hardly be able to go to school with the rest of you. It wouldn’t be difficult for the discerning to discover that those I spent time with in my civilian life were the same people I fought beside in costume.” Herald pointed out almost lazily, and Vista’s face fell in disappointment. Smirking at her, the svelte young woman continued. “That being said, I have no objection with working alongside any of you in the future, should the opportunity present itself.”

“The Director might have some objections about allowing the Wards to be in the presence of someone who uses human bodies to spell her name on the street.” Battery pointed out a trifle coldly. Arms folded across her chest, the energy-themed heroine didn’t seem terribly inclined to join in with the recruitment efforts of her fellows. “That’s more than a little villainous, you know?”

“Hmm…” To some, and certainly if she were a man, the noise Herald made would have certainly been called a ‘grunt’. In her case, however, it came across more as a contemplative hum than anything else. She seemed genuinely thoughtful for a moment, visibly mulling over how best to respond, and when she finally spoke it was with a slightly tilted head and a much more serious tone. “I believe that, in this day and age, ruthless and pragmatic heroism has as much of a place as the classical ideal. Is there a line where it becomes cruel, becomes villainy beneath a thin, contemptible, and hypocritical veneer of justice? Of course, only the foolish or the deluded would dispute that, but I ask you this: Alexandria, Eidolon, Legend…they are loved, but are they not also feared? They have, through a reputation built upon the foundation of their might, pacified entire cities through only the rumors of their intervention. The villains of this city do not fear the law, they do not respect it. They behave freely because they know you are outnumbered and underfunded, they know you lack the numbers and raw power required to bring them to heel.”

“And where does ‘ruthless and pragmatic heroism’ become villainy?” Militia spoke up, feeling the need to defend the rule of law, of oversight. She had grown up in a world where neither existed, and as a result…well, her Trigger Event certainly didn’t occur because of an overabundance of justice and righteousness.

“When it becomes in the service and advancement of oneself rather than the world as a whole. Tell me, do you know what evil is?” Herald responded, her tone and the cadence of her words making it clear that the question was rhetorical. “Evil is hurting others, especially non-combatants, when they have not hurt you. It is causing suffering for amusement or greed. It is in acting for revenge or the acquisition of personal power rather than for justice or in the defense of the defenseless. These are the things that truly separate a hero from a villain.”

Raw belief infused every word as they hung in the air of the now silent street as the heroes regarded the girl with a range of emotions and expressions. Battery still didn’t look all that happy, but she gave a begrudging nod of acceptance and approval of Herald’s words. While Shadow Stalker appeared ambivalent, not that she was well known for displays of emotion outside of savage satisfaction and barely-controlled wrath, Vista appeared to be beaming at the svelte vigilante before them with admiration.

“Well, it seems that our time together has come to an end at last. I must say, this has been a most entertaining night. I do so look forward to seeing you all again soon, but I’m afraid I must away. I trust that you can handle things from here now that your compatriots are arriving.” Herald commented airily as the sound of sirens grew close, tapping her quarterstaff on the ground as fog coalesced on the ground around her feet.

“Please, at least consider the Wards?” Militia asked, taking a half step forward with a somewhat beseeching look on her face, and Herald met her eyes for a moment. Her bearing softened for a moment, eyes holding a glint of sad sympathy within them, and she nodded in agreement. The fog swirled around her, wind whipping fiercely for an instant, and when the fog dissipated only seconds later the orange-eyed girl was nowhere to be seen.  
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She made her way through the well-lit streets of the Boardwalk, just another young woman on a casual night-time stroll in the safest part of the city. Nothing whatsoever to indicate that she was actually the agent of what some might consider a foreign power, one that was busy taking over swathes of the city without breaking a single law in the process. Of course, she was willing to bet that, in the end, the people of Brockton Bay would be so pleased with the end result that the methods wouldn’t even be noticed.

The sound of a throbbing beat became audible as she grew closer to her objective, a brightly lit nightclub by the name of Eternity. The most popular club in the Bay, it was only a couple of years old and had a reputation for excellent security and providing an excellent time. Harassment of patrons and staff by other patrons was taken very seriously, and the guards were well-trained in handling such situations however they had to.

As usual, the pulsing black-tinged purple lights around the entrance revealed the massive line seeking admittance into the pinnacle of Bay nightlife, but she wasn’t a regular person off the street. She was a VIP, more so than anyone protesting her admittance could imagine. Nodding in greeting as people familiar with her spoke her name, she slipped through the curtained doorway that lead to, after a staircase or two and a private changing room, the private balcony where the club’s owner and operator held court.

And ‘holding court’ is exactly what the individual known to the public only as The Patron did, and a very private court at that. No one who wasn’t authorized to do so, a very small group indeed, had ever entered the chamber in which she now stood, never mind gotten so far as the balcony itself. For that reason, she felt comfortable stripping out of her street clothes and pulling on the curve-clinging, nearly-sheer crimson fabric that made up a uniform of a far more private kind than that which she wore in the outside world.

It was a beautiful outfit, in her opinion, one that complemented its wearers very well. Cloth cups, artfully made from folded layers of silk, supported her breasts and held them as firmly as a bra would while being infinitely more attractive in appearance. Delicate sleeves, covering her from wrist to elbow with a single strand attached to a ring around her middle finger, with long scarf-like frills hanging from them. Her lower extremities were covered by what amounted to the bottom half of a bikini, twin tail-like sashes dropping down nearly to the floor on the front and back, and the high-heels came with crisscrossing straps that climbed nearly to her upper thighs.

Then there were the decorations, of course. The bangles, necklaces, tassels, and earrings that sparkled and glittered as she moved. By the time she was fully dressed, such as it was, she was probably wearing the equivalent to the median income of a middle-class family. Gifts and tokens of praise and appreciation from her Lady, her Patron. The young woman who had changed her fate and guided her for so long, despite being younger than her.

Smiling to herself, she closed the locker and moved on, heels clicking on the floor and hips swaying as she no longer walked, but strutted. Here, among only a handful of other places, she didn’t have to play a part. There was no mask, either literal or figurative, here. As she ascended into the balcony, her eyes roamed the chairs arranged along either side, noting which were empty and which were not. Half of her sisters were here, eating and laughing with one another as they relaxed and awaited their Patron’s pleasure. Incense burners, filled with spices and herbs that no one else on Earth Bet had ever seen or smelled, laid a heady and intoxicating haze around them, and she inhaled deeply the familiar ambrosia. It took only moments for the effects to spread through her body, leaving her tingling and warm.

There she sat, on the dais at the end of the balcony, long and slender legs crossed as she gazed out over her domain and lounged with sensual languidness in her luxurious throne, and it was a throne. It was not gilded, neither bejewled nor bearing images of past glories, but despite seeming simplicity of its sleek teak shape and soft crimson pillows, it was imposing all the same. Perhaps such a belief, an image, resulted more from the woman on it. Before her Patron danced another of her sisters, dipping and swirling to the rhythm as the music pulsed and throbbed around them, and her smile broadened as her Lady’s head tilted slightly to the side, dark hair flowing aside to present a single ear. Still, she waited patiently for her sister to finish dancing, as her sister would and had waited for her. When the song ended and her sister reclaimed her seat, The Patron’s throne turned to face them.

“It’s is good to see you again, dear one. Welcome home.” The familiar, silken voice washed over her, one hand raised palm upper-most toward her, and she hastened forward to take the hand within her own and lay a gentle kiss on the offered palm, which then cupped her cheek as a thumb stroked the skin of her cheek. “Tell me, what did you think of our play tonight? Our grand, if understated, debutante dance with the cancer eroding this world?”

“I fear your taste for dramatics and theatricality may not have been sufficiently satisfied, ard-cherital.” The Aeldari title flowed easily, with the familiar and fond caress of long practice, and her Lady laughed brightly in amusement, ember-like eyes gleaming with bright delight, her sisters joining in. As the laughter died down, she continued. “Naturally, you know this, and plan an even more impactful display of a suitably public nature, yes?”

“You know me well, dear one. Come, sit beside me.” Her Lady responded with a nod, fond amusement seeping from every word, and she settled down beside the foot of the throne, leaning against well-placed padding as Her Lady gently stroked her hair. “Everything is arranged, set into motion not only by our actions tonight, but those of your sisters. Emma in particular placed her picador dart with perfect aplomb. Tomorrow at midday, I shall introduce myself to the city and the world at large. It will be a spectacular display, with all the humility due.”  
Giggles and chuckles swept the room, and though she felt and shared the amusement of Her Lady and her sisters, she felt her heart clench uncomfortably at the idea as well. Almost immediately, the hand on her head paused, Her Lady’s voice growing serious for all its continued gentleness.

“You are troubled, dear one, it is clear for anyone with eyes. You fear the results of tonight and tomorrow, but it is not fear for us that you feel. Tell me.” The last two words were a command, and she could not disobey.

“I love you, ard-charital, and I always will, just as I will always obey you, but I am worried about tomorrow and what comes after. I do not like this plan, I do not like the risks to all involved, and I do not like the betrayal at its heart.” She admitted, sounding and feeling almost ashamed of the admission, and several of her sisters stirred and murmured before an upraised hand from their Lady silenced them. “These are my friends, my comrades. I rely on them and they on me, our lives and safety in each other’s hands. Yet I have been lying to them for years, my loyalty not to them but to you and my sisters. I…”

“You love them and care for them, as you should, and you hate lying to them and manipulating them, as you should. I would be more concerned if you didn’t care about deceiving them at all, given those same truths. The knowledge that it is necessary, that they will be better off for your deception, does not ease the discomfort, does not cleanse the feeling of filth that lingers on your heart. I know that, and I knew it when I asked you to join the Protectorate all those years ago. I knew it would hurt you, cause you pain and plague you with doubts, and I can never apologize enough for it. But it is necessary, and I promise you that those who are your friends, truly your friends, will accept and understand when they learn the truth.” Her Lady said, and she believed her. Her Lady had never lied to her or any of her sisters, and never would.   
That did not make the idea any more palatable. Eyes roving the room, The Herald continued. “I have asked much of all of you, and will ask a great deal more. I do not want mindless devotion, obedience without thought or hesitation. Never have I condemned you for voicing such concerns, such fears, and I pray that I never do. I, we, are family. We will support one another through everything that will come.”

Every head lowered in submission to Her will, eyes bright with devotion that was not blind or senseless, but borne of years of comradery and personal loyalty and affection. Taylor, long before she had ever taken the name of Herald, had changed all of their lives for the better, in one way or another. Prevented them from suffering needlessly, supported them at their weakest moment, ensured they avoided cruel and appalling fates. She had made them more than they had been, would make them more than they ever could have been alone, and they loved her for it.

“Good. Now, cre-cherakan, will you not dance for me? I’ve longed for your company these past few days, as I long for any of your sisters away from us.” Taylor relaxed more fully as the previous dancer approached and knelt before her. “Dance for me, dear one, and let your fears leave you for a few hours more.”  
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Sherrel Bailey, also known as the vehicular Tinker Squealer, was quite accurately regarded as the prime reason that the Merchants hadn’t been totally wiped out by the Empire or the ABB yet. Skidmark’s power was dangerous, but the man himself was vulnerable to attack by enemy capes, and his durability was barely above that of a regular human.

Squealer, however, had an advantage that no-one else in her gang did: the ability to make and drive heavily armed and armored vehicles. With Purity having left the Empire behind, at least according to scuttlebutt, the Empire no longer had any capes capable of taking her bastardized tanks-trucks out at range, and with Lung rarely leaving his personal pleasure palace, the ABB couldn’t do a damn thing either. Oni Lee’s suicide-clone grenade tactic might work on killing and terrifying people on foot, but they wouldn’t make much of a dent in anything heavily armored.

Unsurprisingly, the PRT and Protectorate were watching and waiting for her to make an attempt at freeing her boyfriend and leader through her favorite (and often successful) tactic of doing just about anything that involved fight: a full frontal assault with screaming, narcotic-abusing lunatics supported by vehicles that were as ugly as they were effective. It had worked every other time she had done it, given the firepower necessary to stop on of her vehicles before the breakout succeeded would almost certainly result in fatal injuries for anyone in said vehicle. That fact, combined with Squealer’s ability to think and breathe at the same time, meant transport vans moving Skidmark never made it to their destination un-intercepted.

What the members of law enforcement did not know, however, was that one Emma Barnes had (at the command of her Lady) done her level best to inflame the Merchants and bait Squealer into doing the one thing she hadn’t been stupid enough to do: attack the PRT building directly. There would be a spectacle, today, that was guaranteed.

“Come on, you stupid bastards! Get your fucking guns and mount up!” Squealer shouted, storming into the dilapidated warehouse that served as her primary workshop, the best two drivers that the Merchants had following her. While she piloted her latest and greatest vehicle, they would be chauffeuring the various slovenly mooks that would keep the cops busy while she got her boyfriend to safety.

The dorsal hatch of the large, heavily armored vehicle before her opened with a pneumatic hiss as she approached, one of the cooler ideas she had been able to implement for this particular design. Constructed from several stolen cars and trucks, a few household appliances, and at least a dozen parts from an abandoned fishing trawler that had been in particularly good condition, it looked like a bastardized cross of a Humvee, a main battle tank, and a go-cart, with a definitive ‘Mad Max’ twist. The front was the most heavily armored section, of course, with a large trireme-esque ram on the front to aid in the removal of obstacles such as locked doors, barriers, and police officers, and the large turret on the top would dispose of anything that the ram or regular guns didn’t.

Climbing the short ladder and dropping through the hatch, she began bringing the vehicle on-line. The engine, a kit-bashed combination made predominantly from the trawler’s own engine with a bit of Jeep thrown in, roared to life. And it was a roar, a deep-throated bellow that spewed a rather significant amount of grey-black exhaust into the air and shook the vehicle. Panels and dials, incomprehensible to anyone but herself, blazed a myriad of colors as the console came online.

“Alright, let’s go! Follow me, you useless fuckwits!” she barked into her radio, shifting into drive and sending her beast made of steel rolling forward. The doors before her opened automatically, metal screeching painfully as they ground along rusted tracks, and she accelerated out into one of the many slums that ringed what used to be the Docklands. It was a damn good thing that whatever rich fuck had bought half of the city had only be interested in the docks themselves, otherwise she would have had to deal with yet another workshop getting found and trashed. Between the ABB and E88, she had been going through them fairly quickly of late, and that didn’t even mention the red-haired bitch and her little friends that had been harassing her specifically for weeks now. Well, she wasn’t going to put up with it any longer! Once she got Skiddy out of the pig pen, she was going to make him help her hunt down the cunt and show her exactly what happened to people who messed with the Merchants!

Showing little in the way of care for either traffic laws or innocent bystanders, the three Merchant vehicles careened through the streets as they made their way towards their target, sending pedestrians and vehicles alike scrambling out of their path in terror. By the Grace of God, sheer dumb luck, or serendipitous chance, none of those whom the Merchants came across were deeply and permanently harmed. Indeed, the worst injuries to be had were sprains and bruises with a handful of unpleasant scrapes, along with plenty of dents and dings to cars.

Calls were immediately out to the BBPD and PRT, of course, with the latter asserting control over the situation by jurisdictional preeminence. The BBPD wasn’t terribly pleased, of course, they were never fond of sitting by the wayside while the PRT tried (and so often failed) to do anything to rein in the parahuman criminals of their city, but they were also (begrudgingly, through gritted teeth and bitter eyes) willing to admit that they didn’t have the hardware to stand up to or disable a vehicle modified by Squealer. The PRT, of course, immediately and accurately concluded that Squealer was making a break-out attempt for Skidmark. 

That knowledge didn’t help all that much, however, given that the only parahumans that actually remained at the PRT HQ on a regular basis were the Wards, who shouldn’t and wouldn’t engage Squealer and Co. without a full Protectorate member taking point. Given that it would take at least ten or fifteen minutes for said Protectorate member to arrive from The Rig, the likelihood of foiling the rescue seemed small at best. Still, the garrisoned troopers had a job to (try) to do, and so they set about preparing to defend the building. Barricades, security shutters, con-foam sprayers…none of it would actually stop Squealer’s tank, but maybe they could slow the Merchants down enough that the Protectorate would catch up to and recapture the villains.

The surrounding public, warned by both the behavior of the PRT and by the loudspeakers squawking from telephone poles and the building itself, opted by-and-large to abandon the area. Discretion was the better part of valor, after all, and the Merchants weren’t exactly known for either their restraint or their marksmanship. Collateral damage was inevitable, and most had no interest in being part of that particular statistic. There were, of course, those that remained behind. Cape Geeks and adrenaline junkies looking for their next proverbial fix, rival gangers that wanted to see what happened, anti-police loons that were hoping for ‘pigs’ to get hurt, all watching from what they considered a safe distance with phones and handheld cameras at the ready. PHO was doubtlessly exploding with activity, theories and arguments blooming like brushfires as the public speculated and predicted. None of this was new, it had happened a thousand times before and would happen a thousand times more.

What was new was the tall and svelte young woman that came out of a dead-end alleyway as the Merchants came around the corner, hands in the pockets of her jeans as she sucked on a lollipop. The onlookers were baffled and more than a little concerned as she remained seemingly oblivious to the approaching criminals, shouting warnings and gesturing wildly as they attempted to gain her attention. She didn’t deign to respond in any meaningful fashion, seemingly content to amble towards the about-to-be-sieged building with an air of profound relaxation.

The lead vehicle, which at this point was one of the barely-functioning clunkers neither modified nor cannibalized by Squealer, barreled down on her. The driver made no attempt to avoid the impending collision, there was no scream of brakes or tires, only the shouting of the onlookers and the roar of engines. The impact was moments away, a terrible spectacle about to unfold as the final yards were crossed…and then they stopped. The girl’s feet came to a halt, her head turning to cock almost inquisitively at the vehicle that was still straining to move forward, the ear-rending screech of tires on pavement filling the air as the sent of burned rubber rose on clouds of smoke.

The girl turned fully to face the immobile vehicle, posting a hand on her hip while removing her sweet treat from her mouth with the other and shaking it, actually shaking it, at the car and its inhabitants in a manner that could only be described as chastising. It was an absurd image, hardly what one might typically call frightening, but it was obvious to everyone watching that the girl was holding a two and a half tonne vehicle still, despite the best efforts of the driver, with no discernable effort. No outstretched hand implying control over metal or gravity, no physical contact, no damage to the vehicle itself to indicate some sort of invisible barrier.

“Honestly, is your first thought upon seeing a young woman in the street is to run her down? How perfectly pathetic, though perhaps I am giving you too much credit. After all, as a narcotic-infused flunky of that foul-mouth trash I dealt with last night, critical thinking and competence in something even as simple as driving is likely quite beyond your feeble, fumbling grasp.” The girl’s voice rang loud and clear, amused contempt dripping from every word, and a casual looking twitch of her lollipop sent the van across the street and onto its side, sparks flying as metal dragged across macatum.

Almost immediately, a thunderous boom echoed as Squealer fired her main gun at the attacking parahuman. Fire bloomed and smoke billowed, but it quickly became apparent that the attack had been futile at best, as the fire condensed and combined into long, thing strands and glowed white hot as the smoke dispersed with unnatural speed. The girl was unharmed, not a singe on skin or clothe nor a hair out of place as she regarded the Tinker’s vehicle. The other regular vehicle, a long-bed truck, came around, bullets spraying wildly as they attempted to do with personal arms what a small cannon could not. The strands of white-hot flame darted and lashed with such speed that they left lines lingering in the sky, as if a child had tried to spell their name with a glow-stick or a sparkler, and a rain of molten, half-melted bullets pounded the pavement around their target.

“Really, how is it that you idiots have managed to survive this long in a city like Brockton Bay? Your tank Tinker just shot me with a literal cannon, and you think something like this will accomplish what she could not?” the voice resounded again, sounding disappointed and bored. The only response was screams, curses, and hurled abuse as the ineffectual barrage continued. When they paused to reload, she sighed and narrowed her eyes. “You’re starting to bore me.”  
The fire-whips lashed out, tendrils wrapping around gun barrels and melting through in seconds while others detonated the tires and sank into the engine block, rendering the vehicle immobile in every sense of the word. Squealer’s cannon boomed again, as effective as it had been the first time, and the girl who would soon be famous as Herald regarded her remaining opponent with a smile that had a small, cruel edge to it.  
“I hope that’s not all you have; I do so despise feeling apathy during a fight. Let’s see what sort of challenge this mechanical monstrosity of yours can muster, shall we?”  
##########################################################################  
The plague is not conducive to writing serious things.


	5. PHO: Herald's First Outing

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♦ Topic: A New Unmasked Parahuman?  
In: Boards ► United States ► Brockton Bay ► Parahumans ►Unaffiliated  
Sothoth [/b] (Original Poster)  
Posted On Jun 17th 2010:  
So, I'm just going to go out on a limb and assume that everyone here in Brockton Bay has seen the footage of our most recent parahuman thoroughly kicking Merchant ass, WITHOUT wearing a mask?

(Showing page 1 of 35)  
►Mr. Fabuu   
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
Yeah, I had a great view, given I was about twenty feet away. Thought I was going to die when they showed up guns blazing, but the new girl shut them down hard. I mean, she took multiple shots from Squealer's latest tank-truck-hybrid-thing and didn't even get her clothes singed. Not to mention the elemental control shit...

►Antigone  
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
She has to be, like, telekinetic or something right? I mean, she was totally holding the truck that tried to run her over in the same spot! Then she through it across the street, and she never even touched the thing!

►ArchmageEin  
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
I dunno, I'm more impressed by the fact that she made fire-whips out of the explosions Squealer's cannon made, then used those whips to melt/destroy/deflect/whatthefuckever like a million bullets. That has to be some insane reaction speed stuff, right? I mean, how fast do bullets go?

►teufelshund (Verified Veteran) (USMC) (GuyWhoKnowsGuns)  
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
Depends on the gun. Most of the rifles were AK-47s, because of course they were. In a world where people have superpowers and city-destroying monsters are roaming free, somehow every ganbanger still has surplus Soviet hardware.

Anyway, just using the AK as an example, muzzle velocity is something like two and a half thousand feet per second. I'm no egghead, but even I know that numbers like that means that being able to stop those bullets makes her reaction time is somewhere between 'Holy Shit' and 'No, seriously, what the fuck'.

►BadSamurai  
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
What I want to know is, why destroy the bullets in the first place? I mean, the cannon didn't do jack shit, so why bother with the little bullets? Invulnerable is invulnerable, right?

►Brocktonite03 (Veteran Member)  
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
Not necessarily, I mean powers can be pretty arbitrary. Maybe her invuln only works on objects of a certain mass or velocity? Maybe there is a delay in between blocks that is short enough for the cannon, but way too long for all those bullets?

Besides, she was probably worried about ricochets or misses hitting the people who wouldn't move their dumb asses to cover, like sensible folks would.

Mind you, I am one of those people. The dumb asses, not the sensible folks.  
►Miraclemic  
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
Speaking of which, is everyone alright? There were a lot of bullets flying, and somehow I doubt the Merchants bother with following traffic safety laws on their way to the PRT building...

►Miss Mercury (Protectorate Employee)  
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
There weren't any injuries beyond some bumps and scrapes for any of the bystanders, whether along the route the Merchants took or outside PRT HQ. The Merchants were a little more roughed up, but all of them should make a full recovery, at which point they'll get booked according to procedure.

►QwertyD  
Replied On Jun 17th 2010:  
Glad to hear it! I'm not exactly a fan of the Merchants, but I think they need more help than they do prison time or injuries. I wish the new girl had been a little gentler, but I guess that's my soft side talking, given when the Merchants tried to do to her.

End of Page. 1,2,3... 33,34,35  
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♦ Topic: Herald  
In: Boards ► United States ► Brockton Bay ► Parahumans ► Independent ► Heroes

Bagrat (Original Poster) (The Guy in the Know) (Veteran Member)  
Posted On Jun 18th 2010:  
Well, its that time again, where we talk about yet another newly-debuted cape in Brockton Bay. This time, its that fascinating, unmasked, and few-holds-barred girl who calls herself Herald.

Now, since she is unmasked publicly, anyone and everyone can comment on her real identity, but lets not get too creepy okay? No addresses, no phone numbers, and definitely nothing that would get you in trouble with the mods for 'Adult Content', alright?

Now, here is what I/we know about the situation:  
Last night, Wards Vista and Shadow Stalker were patrolling downtown, with Protectorate heroes Miss Militia and Battery doing their own circuits nearby, close enough to support them without actually being WITH them.

At about ten o'clock, Vista called in a group of two dozen variously-armed Merchants led by Skidmark in the area. We still don't know what they were there FOR, but Vista and Shadow Stalker were instructed to hold back and keep an eye on them until Battery and Miss Militia arrived to the scene.

Both Protectorate heroes were still enroute when Herald arrived. From the video and audio clips I have, she manipulated some mist to look like something out of a horror film, freaking the Merchants out and creating a dense fog bank at ground level. Then she doubled down on the horror movie schtick...well, horror or those Nolan Batman movies from Aleph.

As you saw if you clicked on the above link, she ambushed, waylaid, smashed, and dragged the unpowered thug from within the fog, singing a pretty haunting song the whole time, before holding Skidmark about two feet off the ground with one hand around his throat. Now, I'm not a martial artist so I can't speak to the skill required to do anything that she did without lethal damage, especially the whole 'in the air by the throat' thing.

Anyway, she banished the fog, finished her little song, and the heroes intervened to arrest Skidmark before Herald could do anything more permanent to him. She threw him into a wall to knock him out, took her gloves off, and then incinerated them while complaining about how gross Skidmark is. Right before Militia arrived, she introduced herself by pointing out that she had used the unconscious bodies of the Merchants to spell Herald...which is even more of the horror-vibe schtick.

She gets the Ward offer, points out that someone with her features would be unmasked virtually instantaneously no matter what, gives a short lecture on the morality of combat, promises to think about joining as an open Ward, and leaves.

This morning, she thoroughly beat Merchant ass again, except this time she tanked cannon shots from a Squealer-mobile, deflected massed automatic gunfire from a couple dozen junkies, and tore their vehicles apart with whips made out of fire. Squealer and all her accompanying thugs were all arrested, and Herald waltzed into the PRT HQ like none of it ever happened.

(Showing page 1 of 20)  
►AverageAlexandros (Cape Husband)  
Replied On Jun 18th 2010:  
It really is genuinely impressive, if rather worrisome, how much information you can get your hands on, Bagrat. In fact, the only reason it doesn't outright scare me is because the PRT and Protectorate don't seem to have an issue with it.

Anyway, did anyone else find it a little weird, the way Herald handled Squealer? I don't mean the fighting, I mean after. You know, when Herald by all appearances sang her to sleep and then used her own lap as a pillow until the PRT finally got outside?

►ALittleSongbird (Veteran Member) (Verified Cape)  
Replied On Jun 18th 2010:  
I could do that, if I actually used my powers for fighting, but I didn't recognize the language she was singing in. Anyone have any ideas, because it was freaking gorgeous.

Part of that was her voice, obviously, because oh my God can she sing. Haunting and sinister for Skidmark, soothing and gentle for Squealer...fantastic! Wonder if she would be willing to do some songs together?

►An Sionnach Rua  
Replied On Jun 18th 2010:  
The flow and the cadence sounded alot like Irish Gaelic to me, and some of the words sounded like they could have roots in the language, but weren't actual words despite that. Still, it sounded OLD, and it was definitely an actual language and not meaningless syllables strung together to comfort Squealer. I don't know what language it was, but I could tell that much at least.

I wonder if she is going to end up joining the Wards? She is unmasked, which usually is dangerous business, but as a Ward no one would touch her outside of a fight for fear of a massive hammer falling from on high. Hell, other villains would take the perp out just to keep the Marquis Peace intact.

►Sylent-M  
Replied On Jun 18th 2010:  
I just want to know what the PRT is going to rank her as if she does power-testing. I think we should hold off on guessing until they release an official finding...

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